


We both just play along

by liionne



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Eddie isn't married, Fix-It, I said i wouldn't do this, M/M, Post-Canon, These two get to live happily ever after, Which is exactly how it ended right?, a very late Fix-It, but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 05:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liionne/pseuds/liionne
Summary: Riches runs his finger over the cut on Eddie’s cheek, healed after a week in the Derry County Hospital but still pink with its newness. They’re 43 and he wonders how he ever could have forgotten that face; he vows he won’t, not ever again. His throat feels too dry and he doesn’t think he’ll feel the overwhelming relief of leaving their past behind them until they’re far, far away from the town.Although maybe, he thinks, there are some things Richie doesn’t want to leave in his past.





	We both just play along

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo this is my first reddie fic and tbh it isn't much, but I had to get it out of my head. I love these two idiots. But I'll ask that people go real gentle with me; I've tried my best to capture these two losers as best I could, but first times are tricky, y'know?
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Riches runs his finger over the cut on Eddie’s cheek, healed after a week in the Derry County Hospital but still pink with its newness. They’re 43 and he wonders how he ever could have forgotten that face; he vows he won’t, not ever again.

“Will you stop touching that?” Eddie snaps. Funny how he still talks a mile a minute, even when no longer fuelled by youthful feeling of time running out, constantly ticking by. “You’re gonna get it infected, and then I’ll be back in the hospital with sepsis—“

“You just totally ruined a moment, Eds. That was terrible. That could’ve been so romantic.” Richie shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line, but he doesn’t really care. He draws his hand back to his lap and looks to the road in front of them. “Can we get the fuck out of here, please? I’ve had enough Derry to last me this life and my next life as a dung beetle.”

Eddie snorts a laugh, checking his seatbelt and his mirrors and his dashboard before he puts the car in drive. They’re in Eddie’s car, of course, cause Eddie had taken one look at Richie’s and told him _no fucking way am I getting into that death trap_. Richie doesn’t really care; as long as they’re in the car together, he doesn’t mind which.

(Not that he’d told Eddie that. Not that he hadn’t made a fuss, a song and a dance about having to get his car picked up and moved to New York)

They drive in uncharacteristic silence, probably just glad to have Derry disappearing in the rear view mirror. Eddie drives exactly like Richie would have expected, which is to say like a grandmother, but he doesn’t make a comment. His throat feels too dry. He doesn’t think he’ll feel the overwhelming relief of leaving their past behind them until they’re far, far away from the town.

Although maybe, he thinks, there are some things Richie doesn’t want to leave in his past.

~*~

Richie runs his finger over the scar on Eddie’s palm, white and silvery after years of healing. They’re seventeen and everyone’s talking about college and Richie wants to beg, wants to plead: don’t go.

See the thing is, there’s already so many of them that have left. Beverley had left that summer, and Ben the summer after, and Mike had gotten steadily busier and busier until they barely saw him at all. They were left just the four of them, and Richie made his peace with it, but now— now they’re all talking about leaving, and it twists Richie’s insides something rotten.

“That tickles, asshole,” Eddie snarks, jerking his hand back. Richie watches it go, and uses the finger he’d just been using to trace Eddie’s palm to push his glasses up his nose instead. Richie kicks at him, threatening to send him toppling off of Bill’s bed; they stopped hanging out in the clubhouse when they all got too tall to stand in it without hunching their shoulders.

(Well; all except Eddie. Eddie never did grow very much, or very quickly)

“I applied f-for Washington State." Bill says; Richie knows he's nervous talking about it 'cause Big Bill barely ever stutters these days, only when he thinks he's in trouble. Richie blinks at him, eyes like saucers.

"Washington State?" He demands. "That's like— that is _literally_ the other side of the country."

Bill shrugs, his eyes dropping to the floor.

"I'm applying for MIT." Stan pipes up, and Richie about gets whiplash from turning to look at him.

"MIT!? To do _what_?!"

"Philosophy." Stan says, like it should be obvious. Like Richie's missed something. And jesus, maybe he has.

"Philosophy? That isn't even a real subject-- what about you?" He rounds on Eddie, ignoring the roll of Stan's eyes because he's so used to Stan rolling his eyes at him now that it doesn't even register anymore. "Where are you going?"

Eddie holds Richie's gaze for a long time, and that's how Richie knows that Eddie's been keeping something from him. Because when Eddie has a secret — which, from Richie, isn't very often — he gets _real_ quiet. He tries to burn a hole into Richie's skull as if a telekinetic lobotomy'll make the whole thing go away (and to be fair to him, it probably would).

"NYU." He answers after a moment, his eyes glancing away and back again. Richie feels himself sway with it, like the letters each hit him individually, smack, smack, smack. Eddie toes the ground. "Hopefully, anyway."

"So no one was gonna tell me that we're all splitting up?" Richie asks, looking at the three of them. Not a single one of them can look at him in turn. He feels like they've all kept some big secret from him, conspired against him to leave him behind and suddenly, he's mad. He's _hurt_.

And it's Eddie's betrayal that hurts the most. He thought... he thought that he, and Eddie...

He thought that Eddie might at least tell him, before he decided. He thought he might warn him.

He thought maybe Eddie would invite him along, after the past few years. After incidences here and there, nights where it was just the two of them, talking and laughing and lying too close under the covers of Richie's bed, too small for the two of them and yet somehow just right. 

Richie continues. "The band's breaking up and I'm Ringo, left behind,"

"That doesn't make any sense." Eddie mutters. Richie ignores him.

"Not one of you said anything, you didn't even give me any warning, shit—"

"What did you think, Richie? That we would just stay in Derry forever?" It's Stan that interrupts him this time, his voice reedy with his discomfort. "That we would just go down to the Barrens and sit in the clubhouse forever and ever, until we're our parents ages?"

"No," Richie deadpans. Obviously not — he always knew this day would come, but... "I just—"

"I can't s-stay here any l-longer, Richie." Bill whispers, meeting Richie's gaze a lot more steadily than he was a second ago. "I have to go as f-far away as I c-c-can."

And to be honest, Richie gets it. Bill looks absolutely fucking haunted and he always has, ever since Georgie...

Bill, yeah, he gets it. And he can kind of see where Stan is coming from, wanting to get away from his father. And Eddie, wanting to get rid of his mom, no doubt—

They all have reasons. Hell, Richie has his reasons too, even if the main one is just wanting to get the fuck away from Derry and whatever might still live in the sewers but he just feels so left behind. He thought they might go somewhere together, The Losers on Tour, having a blast now that they didn't have to worry about potentially going missing and/or being murdered.

Richie looks to Eddie. In the four, almost five years since they'd taken down that stupid fucking clown, he'd thought that the two of them... He thought they maybe had something. Something they could work on, together. And sure, Richie's fairly work-shy, more of a supervisor than a labourer, but Eddie isn't work. Being with Eddie is never work.

But Eddie looks away, his throat bobbing as he swallows. _Well_, Richie thinks. _Fuck me, then._

"Whatever." He says. He has to clamber over Eddie to get up but he doesn't care; even when Eddie hisses in pain, Richie crushing his foot or something, Richie doesn't apologise like he wants to. "Let me know when you all move out, yeah?"

"Richie," Eddie sighs, rubbing his sore foot subconsciously.

But Richie doesn't say anything; he just leaves, hurtling down the stairs and out of Bill's house, wondering if it's the last time he'll ever do it.

~*~

"Hey, hey, pull over, stop the car," Richie says, his eyes trying to track the fence as they drive past it. It blurs past far too quickly, flying by and Richie can't just let it go. Eddie slams his breaks so hard that Richie almost smacks his forehead off the windshield, but it doesn't hinder him as he unbuckles his seat belt and clambers out of the car.

He walks quickly towards the side of the road, hands in his pockets. He still has his knife with him — not the same knife as when he was a kid, unfortunately, 'cause Richie always did have trouble holding on to things — and he runs his thumb back and forwards over the handle, a little talisman hidden away from the rest of the world. Behind him, another car door opens and slams shut again, footsteps crunching over the tarmac.

"Rich?" Eddie asks.

Richie crouches down, and he smiles.

~*~

Richie ghosts his finger over the bandage on Eddie's palm. They're thirteen and they've slipped away from the rest of the group, riding their bikes back into town and then further, towards home.

Richie looks at the bandage against Eddie's grimy skin. It's soaked through over the gash, bright red against the white, and Richie knows his hand looks exactly the same. For some reason, that makes his chest feel kinda warm; he and Eddie being the same. Matching. Like they're the same person, or part of some secret club, just the two of them.

"Ow," Eddie hisses. He curls his fingers over it gently, almost catching Richie's finger as he snatches it back. Richie doesn't want to hurt him. He never wants to hurt him. "Damn it."

"Still hurts?" Richie asks. He uses the very same finger to push his glasses up his nose, his palm itching, aching.

"Yours doesn't?" Eddie mutters. It's just the two of them, sat on the lawn outside of Richie's house. His parents don't care too much, so long as they don't break anything or upset the neighbours. His mom's probably going to ask what the hell happened to his hand, but hey, Richie's good at lying. He'll think of something.

And double hey, it could be worse. His mom could be _Eddie's_ mom. Eddie's mom is gonna have a _fit_. He might never see Eddie again.

"Kinda." Richie shrugs. He looks at it and remembers the gash beneath it, the glass cutting his skin. "You regret it?" He asks, looking up at Eddie. Eddie's eyes dart away, the way they do when he knows the answer to a question but doesn't want to give it.

"Do you?" Eddie asks, looking at the curb.

"Fuck yeah," Richie nods. "I think it's a stupid fucking idea. If that clown come back, I'm gonna wanna run in the opposite direction. Go to Timbuktu or Tahiti or something, I bet they don't have sewers there—"

"But you won't, right?" Eddie's a lot more serious than usual, which is definitely saying something, 'cause Eddie's like the second most serious (after Stan the Man, of course). He looks at Richie and Richie knows that this is important to him. Not a lot of things are important to them, because they're thirteen and what could be important except for summer days and friends and arcade games, but _this_. This matters. "If It comes back..."

"I'll come back." Richie nods, his voice quiet. He raises his arm and waves his cut hand like it's a dummy arm, made of plastic. "I let Bill fuck me up, didn't I?"

Eddie snorts, and then he laughs, and that's how Richie knows the moment's over. Richie grins; making Eddie laugh gives him that same warm fuzzy feeling, more than making the others laugh does.

"My mom's gonna kill me." Eddie says. It's a fact, not a question, and Richie doesn't know what to say expect make a joke. He think about it, but Eddie just shrugs, getting to his feet. "Who gives a shit." He decides. "I'll see you tomorrow, Rich."

"See you tomorrow, Eds." Richie returns. He itches to stand up as well, but he forces himself to stay sitting.

"That's not my name." Eddie rolls his eyes.

"See you tomorrow, Eduardo." Richie tries again. Eddie shakes his head, pushing his bike along the road, but Richie _knows_ he's smiling. Even though all he can see is the back of Eddie's head, he knows. "Sweetie pie! See you around, pumpkin toes!"

Eddie sticks a finger up at him, and Richie snickers. His palm itches, but what does it matter? He's gonna see Eddie tomorrow, and that fucking clown is dead, and everything's gonna go back to normal.

~*~

  
The letters have faded a little, just like the rest of the names and hearts and all that bullshit. He can't leave it like that; he plans to leave Derry in the fucking dust but... this is too important.

He pulls the knife from his pocket, flicks it open, and starts to carve at the fence again.

The footsteps stop when they're a few feet away, and there's no further sound. Once the letters have been etched deep into the wooden fence again Richie leans back on his heels and smiles, touching his fingertip to them, tracing each one. R + E. It's always been him and Eddie, even when they were just dumb kids wiling away summer days.

"You did that?" Eddie asks. Richie finally looks back at him, and he nods, standing up to his full height and taking a few steps back. He stops when he feels Eddie's shoulder brush his side, slipping the knife and his hands back into his pockets.

"Yeah. That summer, y'know. When we were all fighting and being little assholes." He needn't say more. Eddie knows the one; there were many fights to follow, but none as cataclysmic as that. "Guess I missed you, or something."

Richie looks to Eddie, and Eddie hums, his head tilting as he looks at it. He considers it like it's a work of art hanging in the Louvre and hey, maybe it is.

"Lame." Eddie shrugs, holding his silence for just a moment before he breaks into snickers and bumps his shoulder against Richie's. Richie gapes at him, shoving at him so that he stumbles a step or two.

"Fuck you, that was like, my first ever declaration of love." Richie gasps. "Unbelievable. I scratched our initials into the kissing bridge and you say it's _lame_? You're un-be-lievable, you god damn son of a—"

He never gets to the end though. Eddie leans up on his tip-toes and presses his mouth to Richie's, one hand settled against Richie's neck, the other on his waist. Richie fumbles his hands out of his pockets so he can grab at Eddie in turn, and he finds that he's completely stumped for what to say when the other pulls back. Eddie had always been pretty good at shutting him up.

"You're a sap, Richie Tozier." Eddie accuses with a grin. "Think we should take that with us as a memento?"

"The fence?" Richie arches his eyebrows. Eddie shrugs again. "Uh, no. We'll probably end up fucking cursed or something, let's just get back into the car." Richie says. Eddie grins, leaning up for another quick kiss before he starts to walk back to the car. "I'll just carve it into your skirting boards or something instead, then we can keep it forever."

"What? No!" Eddie protests.

"I gotta make the place mine somehow," Richie retorts. "I think a few romantic wood carvings could—"

"You will not graffiti my fucking house, asshole." Eddie snipes, and Richie can't help but grin as Eddie, his Eds, starts the car and begins to drive, Derry disappearing out behind them.


End file.
